Cortina
by Jazzola
Summary: A one-shot based on Youngsters: even a child with no Christmas can still have something special.


A/N: This is a flashback scene from my massive (but private) fic, at the moment simply entitled _Injustice _(subject to change), in which Gene is sixteen. Since I thought people might like to see it, I have decided to share it with the world. It can be read as a fic linked to _Youngsters _as well (it was originally going to be included, but then I changed the plot and it was cut). _Injustice _is filled with so much angst and sadness that I'll keep it to myself, but you can have this slightly altered little snippet as just about the only positive bit in the whole thing. So, enjoy and remember to review- they've even put the little box at the bottom of the screen for you so you can't actually miss it- and I hope you appreciate it! Jazzola

* * *

_Christmas Eve, 1978_

It was bitterly cold. So cold that his nose was numb and his fingers were steadily turning an interesting shade of blue. Gene thought it was interesting, anyway, as he carefully studied his hands rather than the window of the toyshop to his right, not wanting to set himself up for a fall by allowing himself to hope. He knew this Christmas would be just the same as the rest- watching the Queen on telly, playing Cheat with his brother and mother, and getting whacked about by his father as soon as he got in from the pub because for some reason, the Christmas cheer never managed to get through the drunken haze to his father's brain. He'd put the ice tray in the freezer in anticipation today, and told Stu and Mam exactly where it was in case he was knocked out and couldn't fetch it himself. It had happened before.

Scouting around, Gene rubbed his aching ribs surreptitiously, trying hard to keep up the pretence of being an ordinary boy out on the street, the shame burning him up from the inside. Gene Hunt was not an ordinary boy on the street, because his mother had tasked him with stealing a Christmas turkey to have tomorrow, to sneak it under his jumper and run home as fast as he could so that it didn't defrost too far.

Gene wasn't a troublemaker, not really. He occasionally threw a brick through someone's window if they really deserved it, and he did get into fights at school, but shoplifting was not high on his list of priorities; he was hoping devoutly that this was a one-off, that next year Mam would have enough money to buy a turkey herself, but the little bit of him that he'd fondly called his 'gut instinct' firmly told him it wouldn't happen. He knew shoplifting was wrong, knew he should turn around and go home, but if he did, they would all go hungry tomorrow, Dad included. And Dad liked to beat them when he was hungry.

So he had to square his shoulders and take it like a man.

But nobody would blame him for looking in the toyshop first.

Would they?

He knew he should walk past, forget it existed. But the window display was so tempting, the neatly-arranged toy cars on top of their brightly-coloured boxes next to the Scalextric models whizzing around their little tracks, the occasional de-railing making the boys staring through the smudged glass whoop and laugh. Gene longed to be a part of them, be carefree and happy anticipating Christmas tomorrow, but as soon as the desire entered his mind he pushed it back out again. That way lay madness.

All the same. A quick look wouldn't hurt.

Before he could stop his feet, they were taking him inside, through the doors and into a little sliver of seven-year-old heaven.

The toyshop was crammed with over-excited children and indulgent parents, smiling soppily as their offspring cuddled toy ponies or gazed at Hornby trains, the air thick with anticipation and longing; banners overhead counted down the days to Christmas, green and red bunting strewn from shelf to shelf blowing softly in the warm draughts from the central heating. Few people paid the little boy in a tattered old coat and scuffed shoes any attention as he slid through the throng and headed straight over to the toy cars, squeezing through clustered parents and gazing children to stare at the shelves before him, his blue eyes wide with longing as they raked over cars and play police stations and fire stations. For a second he dared to allow himself to reach out towards the little boxes, quickly retracting his hand as though the toys would burn him if he touched them, heart thudding in his ears as his gaze raked over Mustangs and Aston Martins and Lancias, each finely-sculped model sleek and noble. Two boys at the other end of the aisle were tussling over a toy Audi, a fight threatening to break out at any moment; their parents hurried over, leaving Gene with a clear view of the shelf in front of him.

And of the bronze Ford Cortina model in front of him, proud and shiny in its cardboard container, perfect in every minute detail and sending Gene's heart racing as it caught the light.

"Ohh…" he murmured as he moved forwards, one small hand tracing the bonnet and doors and boot, smudging the clear polythene, swallowing hard as the desire threatened to swallow him whole. He would gladly have sold his soul just to play with it for a day, to imagine himself behind the wheel, roaring through the cobbled streets of Manchester pursuing bank robbers and thieves and the evil people Mam warned him about whenever he went out to play alone. If he had a car like that, he would never even put it down, he would protect it with his life, and maybe invite Stu to play with it once or twice if he promised to be good, because he'd want to show it off to anyone possible. It would be his baby. His pride and joy. Oh God, how he wanted that car.

And then a thought came into his head. Every other child would be getting a visit from Father Christmas, but he never had, even though he was a good boy and took the beatings for Mam. He'd long since realised that Father Christmas didn't come, probably because he thought Dad might get jealous and he wanted to save Mam. Maybe, just maybe, he could be his own Father Christmas this year?

He slowly unzipped his coat.

He was going to steal something else in a minute anyway, wasn't he? It wasn't like he could get much worse. And other children got presents from their mams and dads, he was just evening the field out a bit, treating himself for once. It wasn't his fault, not really.

Checking round, Gene reached out and slid one of the model Cortinas out from the shelf, tucking it into his coat and zipping it back up while everyone's attention was diverted by the two little boys fighting at the other end of the aisle.

_Yes._

Zipping his coat up fully, Gene turned round, fighting to keep his expression neutral as he headed for the door and the cold street, folding his arms over his chest to hide the bulge. The toy Cortina snuggled itself against his heart, and he wondered if it could feel his pulse beating through his jumper, so hard that Gene's hands were trembling as he stepped onto the brown mat in front of the entrance.

"Oi!"

A hand grabbed his arm.

_No!_

Gene bolted, snatching his arm away and shoving his way through the gaggle of children at the front of the shop, sprinting into the town centre as the shop guard chased after him; his feet thudded on the pavement, his breath coming in sharp gasps, ducking through shoppers and towards the main road as the shouts chased him down the street. All he could think about was the toy car tucked beneath his coat, the sharp edge of the box prodding repeatedly into his clavical bone, his beautiful Cortina that he so desperately wanted-

Hands grabbed him. Forced him onto the floor, holding him down as he struggled, kicking and punching. Unzipped his coat and pulled the Cortina away, holding it up to the light, smiling at Gene's howl of loss and misery as the security guard caught up and hauled him up by the arm.

"I'll take him and the toy back. The manager's calling the police, he's a friend of the Chief Super. Thanks, lads."

Gene writhed for all he was worth, panting and yelping, but the security guard held his arms firmly behind his back as he led him back to the toyshop, parading him in front of the shoppers on the high street who stared at him with disapproving and disparaging eyes, muttering behind his back. _Troublemaker… thief… mother should be ashamed… give him the old what-for, I would… no discipline… destined for the streets._ It was all Gene could do not to explode with the injustice of it all.

"This the lad?" a man in a black suit asked as Gene was pushed back into the toyshop, the children now gaping at him as eagerly as they had at the toys in the windows; the guard nodded, placing the toy Cortina on the countertop to his left as the manager stepped forwards, looming above Gene.

"You, young man, should be ashamed of yourself. Didn't your mother tell you you have to pay for toys, that you're not allowed to just take them?"

_Mam told me ter steal a turkey. _"Yes, sir."

"Then you're aware that you've been a very naughty boy."

_I always am. Even when I'm good. _"Yes, sir."

"And I have asked the police to come and talk to you. They will take you to the police station and ask you some questions, understand? You're very lucky that you're too youg to be prosecuted. They'll want to talk to your mother as well."

"NO!" Gene yelled, so loudly the entire shop turned to stare at him, someone's baby starting to cry in the sudden silence. The manager stepped back, his eyebrows rising up into his neatly-combed hair; Gene stared down at the floor, biting his tongue, fiddling with a hangnail as his cheeks burned red. If they went to fetch Mam, they'd see the bruises, and Mam had told Gene that she couldn't be seen by anyone but him and Stu until the bruises had healed. Especially the ones he'd glimpsed through the door when she was in the bath, the ones between her legs and on her chest. And he knew she'd cry if he got caught by the police. He desperately didn't want Mam to be sad on Christmas Day, even if she had no turkey because he'd got caught. Mam was sad enough as it was without having to worry about him.

"Please." He meant for his voice to sound commanding, but it came out more like a whimper, although he quickly recovered himself. "Please, yer don't need ter call Mam. She's… busy. Or at work. Yeah, she's at work."

He wasn't even convincing himself with his excuses. The manager tutted under his breath.

"We won't call your mother, young man. The police will. They'll have to, because she'll have to come and collect you, and they'll want to talk to her as well. Perhaps you can tell them where she works and they can go and collect her there."

Gene focused on the damp brown entrance mat beneath his feet, biting down on his lip to keep the tears behind his eyelids. He couldn't allow himself to cry, couldn't allow himself to be weak. Only babies and gayboys cried, not big boys, Dad always told him that. Not big boys like him. He had to be a big boy, for Mam and Stu, he had to be a big boy…

A single tear dribbled down his cheek.

"Would you like a tissue?" the manager asked quietly, bending almost to Gene's height. Gene glared at him, swiping his eyes angrily, ignoring the sting of his overgrown fingernails scraping his skin. Better pain than crying.

"No."

"Now, young man, don't be rude to me. I was offering you help."

"I don't need 'elp! Not a charity case!"

Gene stamped his foot hard, ignoring the pain in his toes as the impact crushed them in his too-small shoes; the manager clipped him round the back of his head, hissing as Gene kicked him in the shin, the guard moving forwards to bend his young charge double with an armlock and smiling grimly at Gene's "Piss off, yer bastard!"

"Your temper will keep getting you into trouble if you don't learn to control it, young man. That hurt a lot, and I'll be telling the police that you did that."

"Don't care," Gene snarled, kicking back at the security guard and yelping with pain as the man forced him to the floor. "Gerroff me! You're bigger than me!"

_If I was grown-up, I'd be knockin' your lights out, yer bastard._

"Is this the young man?"

Glancing up, Gene was just able to make out the man in a hideous brown suit stood in the entrance to the toyshop, staring down at Gene with derision on his face, a radio in one hand. The guard yanked Gene to his feet, pushing him at the police officer, who promptly took hold of him and lifted him into the air, keeping him at arms' length as he carried Gene to the cream-coloured Renault parked on the kerb and motioned to someone else to open the door for him.

"Oi, Foster, you goin' ter open the soddin' door or do I 'ave ter carry Junior ter the station meself?"

"Piss off," Gene spat, abruptly thrown onto a cracked leather seat and restrained by an arm across his chest as the door banged open. The burly officer whom the arm belonged to didn't look as though he would take kindly to being messed about, so Gene wisely shut up and let his back rest against the seat, glaring out of the window as the engine started up and the car drew away.

"Remind me why we're pickin' little kids up again?" the driver asked, his voice sneering; Gene glared at him, copying the gesture that Doreen Atkinson had given Bernie Grahams that time he'd suggested they go behind the community hall and 'do the downhill racer'. It seemed to work, both officers looking mildly affronted before the driver snorted and turned away.

"Right one we've got 'ere. On second thoughts, Guv might want 'im spendin' the night in the cells, put enough of a dampener on 'is Christmas ter make 'im reconsider tryin' ter shoplift again."

_As if not 'avin' any presents wasn't enough of a dampener on my Christmas. _Gene folded his arms over his chest, one hand sneaking inside to touch the little dent on his shoulder where the Cortina's box had been, his heart aching with loss.

He'd been hoping to get a proper look at the police station, but only got a few token glimpses as he was hauled from the car and into a gloomy grey reception, tugged forwards to stand in front of a tall woman who looked as though she'd been sucking on lemons. The woman looked over her desk at him, eyebrows pursed together, glasses hanging on a chain around her neck glinting in the dim light as Foster kept a tight hold on his arm, the other officer dropping a paper bag on the desk beside Gene.

"Lad got caught tryin' ter steal this."

He slid Gene's toy Cortina out of the bag and banged it down on the surface.

Gene swallowed a sudden rush of bile.

"Did 'e now?" The woman glared at him, perching her glasses on her nose as she turned a piece of paper over and seized a pen from the rack by her elbow. "An' yer name, young master?"

"Not tellin'," Gene hissed, folding his arms. The woman sighed.

"Look, you tell us what yer name is an' we might be a bit nicer ter yer, the Guv might even let yer go 'ome this evenin'. So what's yer name?"

They'd find out eventually, Gene supposed as he rolled his eyes, focusing on the concrete floor beneath his feet.

"Eugene Hunt."

"An' 'ow old are you, Eugene Hunt?"

"Seven. Nearly eight."

"Eh, gettin' too old fer snatchin' toys now, aren't yer? Yer know yer telephone number so we can contact yer mam?"

"She won't be there," Gene lied, shuffling his feet. The woman snorted.

"Course she won't. Telephone number, or DC Foster 'ere can trawl through our records until 'e finds one, an' if 'e 'as ter do that, you will regret it."

She passed him a piece of paper and her polished black pen, the steel in her eyes softening ever so slightly as his blue fingers struggled to hold it securely enough to write.

"Maybe yer should've tried ter nick some gloves instead, eh? Thank you. Take 'im inter one of the interview rooms, the cells are no place fer a child."

"DS Gordon said ter take 'im ter the cells. Said it'd put the fear of God up 'im. Any clean cells?"

"Cell three," the woman said doubtfully, taking the paper and pen back from Gene. "I'll ring the Guv an' let 'im know 'e's 'ere. Tell DS Gordon next time 'e wants ter bring in kids, 'e can bloody well make sure the cells are empty of psychos already before 'e sticks 'em in there."

"Psychos?" Gene asked, grabbing at the desk. Foster snorted.

"Should've worried about that before yer decided ter steal somethin', shouldn't yer? Come on then, lad. Ta, Phyllis."

The woman stared after them, an odd expression on her face, as she unlocked the door to the cells and Gene was marched through into one, all but thrown into the little concrete box, not even given enough time to stand up before the door slammed shut behind him.

The cell was almost as cold as the street. Shivering, Gene sat down on the little bed beside him, rubbing his hands together to try and warm them up, trying desperately hard not to think of how disappointed Mam would be when she got the phone call.

* * *

The Guv, whoever he was, didn't come to see him that night. He simply said that Gene was to remain in the cells for the night, to quietly reflect, and could go home the next day after an interview had been conducted, being too young to be held responsible for the theft. Foster relayed this to Gene through the cell door when he brought him his food, plonking the bowl of tepid soup into the young inmate's hands and sliding the flap back into place before Gene could even mutter a thank you.

Gene didn't tell him it was much more than he would have got at home. He didn't even protest that they had said he could go home that evening if he gave them his telepone number. He had to be strong, and bear this out for Mam, because he was a big boy now, and big boys didn't cry just because they had been caught by the police.

It didn't stop him crying himself to sleep, curled up on the hard little bed with only a thin sheet to cover him, swallowing his tears and his misery down every time a police officer peered in at him with narrowed eyes and a steely expression. Gene Hunt might not be made of flint, but he'd be damned if he'd let these bastards see him weak, let them have power over him.

Drifting through an uneasy, fitful sleep, he dreamed of the Cortina, of roaring around the streets of Manchester behind the shining black leather wheel only to be yanked by cruel, strong hands from the driver's seat and into a tiny airless room, waking up choking as Foster poked his head in to tell him that the Guv would see him now.

* * *

"You know, it's never a good idea ter steal. I'm pretty sure you've been told that before, too. So why did yer steal the car, Eugene?"

Gene was a little confused as to why the Guv was taking any interest. He knew the Guv was a DCI, and he also knew that DCIs had serious crimes to solve, like murder and rape and kidnapping; he was fairly sure that one young boy nicking a toy car didn't fall into the 'serious crimes' category, but here the Guv was, watching him with icy blue eyes from the other side of a battered old table, hands clasped on top of it as the tip of his cigarette burned orange with each breath in.

"I really, really wanted it an' I didn't 'ave any money," he murmured, scrubbing at his aching eyes and wincing as the movement aggravated his sore ribs. He hadn't noticed yesterday, the adrenaline blocking out the pain, but here in the interview room the aches and pains from his latest beating were all he could feel.

"It's Christmas today, Eugene. What about yer Christmas presents?"

Gene snorted before he could stop himself.

"You didn't want yer Christmas presents? Or yer knew yer wouldn't get any?"

"I'm not a charity case," he muttered, folding his arms defensively as the Guv leaned forwards over the table, the smoke from his cigarette wafting over Gene's face. The Guv's DI, hovering somewhere near the back of the Lost and Found room he'd been dragged into, raised his eyebrows.

"Alright, son. Nobody said yer were," the Guv said, plucking the cigarette from between his lips and stubbing it out in the ashtray. "Father Christmas doesn't come, eh?"

"Piss off," Gene muttered, eyes fixed on the table. The Guv tutted.

"No wonder, with that language. But yer can't just nick whatever takes yer fancy, son. That's not 'ow things work, is it? That's what bad people do, criminals an' such. I don't think yer a bad person, Eugene, I think yer made a mistake and yer regret doin' it. I think yer just a kid, a kid 'oo wanted somethin' ter celebrate Christmas fer once, 'oo got caught an' is dealin' with the fallout now. So you tell me, Eugene: is that right, or are yer a bad person 'oo deserves another night in the cells?"

Gene dared to glance up at the Guv, his hands clasped in his lap, fringe flopping over and casting his face partially into shadow; the blue eyes were almost gentle, staring into his with a certain empathy, the grey flecks catching the light as smoke drifted lazily up from the smouldering cigarette butt.

Slowly, reluctantly, he nodded, pressing his lips together hard to stop himself doing something embarrassing and stupid like crying. Suddenly he just wanted his mam, wanted her comfort and security, her warm arms round his skinny body and holding him tight as her soft blonde hair brushed his shoulders. The corner of the Guv's lip twitched.

"That's all, son. I think yer learned yer lesson last night. Next time, save up, eh? Yer mam's waitin' in reception, so my DI 'ere will take yer ter meet 'er an' book yer out an' then she can take yer 'ome. Yer not in trouble, understand? Just don't do this again, especially after yer turned ten, or yer will be in trouble."

Gene, picking at a hangnail so hard he drew blood, nodded once, sliding silently off the chair and letting the DI lead him out as the DCI remained seated in the room, tapping the ashtray with one long finger.

Mrs Hunt pulled him into a huge hug as soon as she saw him, tears streaming down her face, apologising profusely to Phyllis and the DI as she stroked Gene's hair back into place and scolded him, the tears in her eyes enough evidence for Gene to be certain she was just putting on a show. She'd managed to cover the worst of the bruising up with make-up, passing the rest off as a fall when the DI mentioned it in a low voice, signing Gene out with a gently shaking hand as her other clasped Gene's fingers firmly, keeping him pinned to her side.

"We'll be off 'ome now, if yer don't mind," she said meekly, sliding the register back across Phyllis' desk and sliding her arm round Gene's shoulders. The DI nodded, smiling softly at Gene as he half-buried his face in his mam's coat, breathing in her reassuring smell as deeply as he could.

"OK, ma'am. Stay out of trouble, alright, young man? Work 'ard at school, an' maybe one day yer'll be able ter afford all the toys yer could possibly want. A whole fleet of toy cars."

Gene nodded, ducking his head; Phyllis managed a half-smile from behind her desk, her features softening for the briefest of seconds before the slap of loafer on floor announced someone else's arrival and Gene turned to see the Guv, holding a tied plastic bag out towards him with a glint in his eye.

"Yer need ter take this 'ome with yer, Eugene. Just somethin' ter keep yer on the straight an' narrow."

Gene was fairly certain he didn't need any reminding other than the memory of the cold, dark cell, but the wink the Guv threw him made him simply nod and take the bag with a whisper of thanks, clutching it close to his chest.

"Don't open it 'til yer 'ome, OK? Bag's a bit fragile, might split if yer move it around too much," the Guv said softly, patting his shoulder as Mrs Hunt steered him away, thanking the Guv for not pressing charges on their way to the door and home.

The second they were out of view of the police station, Mrs Hunt scooped Gene up into her arms, sobbing quietly into his coat, carrying him all the way home with her face pressed into his neck as Gene rested his head on her shoulder and let himself doze, both hands clutching her scarf as though it were a lifeline.

The plastic bag remained held closely to his chest, crackling softly with each step, as though reassuring him that it was still there.

Mam put him straight to bed as soon as they arrived home, telling Stu in a low voice that someone had taken Gene to spend the night somewhere else and Gene was very tired today, leading the younger boy downstairs by the hand and immersing him in the Christmas Day cartoons as she made the best of what was in the cupboard for Christmas dinner. Gene, snuggled firmly in his duvet, let himself listen to the carols Mam was singing quietly in the kitchen, humming along to the ones he knew, his eyes glued to the plastic bag now lying on the floor beside his bed, reaching out towards it and then snatching his hand back under the duvet again, putting off opening it for as long as he could. If he didn't open it, if he kept it a mystery for a little while, he could pretend it was something special and exciting rather than probably something boring, like paperwork that Mam had to fill out.

Although it didn't look like paperwork. It looked vaguely rectangular.

And then his curiosity got the better of him, and he slid out of bed and onto the floor beside it, sliding his hand into the bag.

His questing fingertips first found a folded-up piece of paper, and he drew it out, certain that this would be the form Mam had to sign; but when he unfolded it, it was just one sentence, scrawled in blue ballpoint. 'Merry Christmas, Eugene Hunt- from the Guv.'

Eyes wide, Gene reached inside once again, grabbing at the rectangular box and sliding it slowly from the paper bag, heart thumping with anticipation.

The smile that graced his face as he lifted the box to his face was the widest he'd ever worn.

In his hands, he held his toy Cortina.


End file.
